The Final Curtain (15 page)

Fask was a stocky man with pale skin, thick curling hair and dark brown eyes. ‘I've bagged up the cat,' he said cheerfully. ‘I'll pop it in the deep freeze and keep a hold of it for a bit.'

‘What about the rope used to hang it?'

‘There's a coil of it in one of the outhouses,' Fask said. ‘It's been cut with a serrated knife. Apart from that there's nothing much to get from it.'

‘Any fingerprints on the door?'

Fask shook his head. ‘None apart from the ones that should be there.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Not so far. Poor animal looks as though it had its neck broken before it was strung up. The head was loose. Rope was knotted real tight around its neck. I've preserved the knot. Nice cat too. Seal point Burmese, if I'm not very much mistaken. I suppose that's why they called it Tuptim.'

‘What?'

‘Tuptim. Burmese name.'

‘Is it?' Joanna felt stupid.

‘Haven't you seen
Anna and the King of Siam
?'

‘Years ago.'

‘Don't you remember the Burmese girl who was given to him as a bride? Fell in love with Lun Tha, the man who brought her to Siam.'

‘Vaguely. So that's where she got the name from.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, you've answered one question at least.'
The least important one
, she could have added but didn't.

Fask grinned. ‘Glad to be of service, Jo. And the cat, by the way, would have been worth a few hundred pounds.'

‘Really? You're a mine of information, Mark. I didn't realize you knew so much about cats – or the films industry.'

He looked abashed. ‘Pub quizzes,' he explained.

‘Did you get anything else from around the scene?'

‘Not a lot.'

‘Do you know where the cat was killed?'

‘Probably in the big barn. That's where the rope was. There's a saucer of water there. My guess is that the cat was lured in and—'

‘Do you have a time frame?'

‘Well, Mrs Tong says she stayed at Butterfield overnight as Mrs Weeks was getting increasingly twitchy about being there on her own. Apparently Tuptim liked to roam during the night, went in and out as she pleased through the cat flap. She was found at seven this morning and last seen late Monday evening, they think, so the usual rules. Somewhere between those two times. She was pretty stiff and cold by the time I got to her so my guess is late last night.'

Joanna nodded. ‘Anything else that might help, Mark?'

‘Not really.'

He left and Joanna remained with a feeling of dissatisfaction. Korpanski was busy in another room so she was on her own.

She spent the afternoon on the computer and downloaded a couple of episodes of Butterfield Farm. There was no doubt about it – Timony Weeks had been a beauty. Not a great actress, that was obvious. She hammed her lines a couple of times, relied too much on a helpless look for a wide spectrum of emotions: fear, grief, happiness, guilt and confusion. All were created by a widening of the eyes and a slight parting of the lips. The episode Joanna was looking at had been shown in 1963 when Timony would have been eleven. She looked younger, more like eight. But however poor the acting had been and the frequent fluffing of lines, even Joanna could recognize that Timony Weeks had had an undeniable screen presence: long, thick hair which she tossed around to great effect and huge, vulnerable eyes which looked beseechingly into the camera. They were enough to melt the hardest of hearts. Added to that was a mouth that trembled every single time she looked at a wounded animal – which was roughly four times per episode. And the check shirts and denim dungarees which she wore around the farm were very ‘cutesy' while the nylon dresses, hair ribbons, white ankle socks and sandals that she wore into town were undeniably dainty. Watching episodes of the series Joanna soon realized that Timony Weeks had stolen the show with her winsome ways. She had two older brothers, Keith and Sean, great muscular monkeys of men who guarded and protected her at every step and in turn she rewarded them with her sweet smile, a flash of
those eyes
and occasionally a quick, embarrassed kiss on their rough male cheeks. And then there was David, a younger brother who seemed to have no purpose at all in the series and no part to play except to be cuddled and comforted by his soft-hearted sister, Lily.

Gerald, who played Joab Butterfield, her screen father, looked old enough to be her grandfather rather than her father. The part he played was taciturn and dignified in dungarees whereas May, her screen mother, was a troubled, fretting scold with permanent scowl lines scoring her forehead. Joanna looked closer at Gerald. At a guess he would ‘scrub up' very nicely. He was tall and thin, and could have been distinguished-looking in a suit rather than denim. He had a proud, erect posture and thick grey hair. In spite of his age and the part he was playing, Joanna caught a frisson of attraction between the screen stars and felt uncomfortable when Timony climbed on to his lap, threw her arms around him and gave ‘Daddy' his goodnight kiss. Joanna watched a couple of episodes but soon got bored with the sickly sweetness of the storylines, the stilted acting and disjointed conversations. Freeman and the BBC had been right to pull the plug, probably a few years too late, and bow out. It wouldn't have passed muster for today's more sophisticated dramas like
EastEnders
or
Coronation Street
.
She switched off and sat, thinking, for a while. She knew she was missing something and central to that conviction was the certainty that it was all to do with Lily Butterfield, or Timony Shore. She rubbed her forehead, closed her eyes and tried to picture what it was that was disturbing her.

She longed to talk this over with Matthew but wasn't sure she could find the right words. The events were so nebulous and insubstantial. It was all about feeling and impressions, instincts and ideas. Even the business about the watch seemed insubstantial.

All except the killing of the cat. That was real enough.

As she drove home that evening her mind kept returning to the puzzle of events at Butterfield Farm. Something was troubling her. It lay at the back of her mind, an oily, green sludge which she could feel in her brain. She was conscious of it all the time. The urge to talk the case over with Matthew strengthened with every mile she drew nearer to Waterfall Cottage. But when she reached the lane and their home she realized that Matthew was not there. There was no sign of his car and the cottage was in darkness. She sat outside for a while, disappointed. It was not late. Only seven o'clock, but this was unusual. A first, in fact. As a pathologist Matthew did not have to go on calls and emergency stuff. He was generally home around six. She decided she would ring him on his mobile once she'd gone inside and lit the woodburner.

He answered on the second ring. ‘Hi, Jo.'

‘I'm home,' she said, ‘and you're not.'

‘Oh. Sorry. I forgot to mention it. There's a lecture tonight. It's on tissue sampling and toxicology. I promised Eloise I'd take her. There's a dinner afterwards, Jo, so I'll be quite late and won't need a meal. I'm so sorry. I simply forgot to tell you.' His voice was in the stage whisper of someone about to enter a lecture theatre and surrounded by people he did not want listening in.

Her mouth dropped open. This was a first. Not only was it a first but she suspected it would not be the last. It wasn't a problem but Miss Eloise being involved was rubbing salt into an open wound. She could just picture the girl's snide little comment.

‘Tightening up the apron strings, Daddy? Being scolded for staying out late?'

Joanna glowered. She doubted this situation would have arisen
before
they were married. Was he already taking her for granted? Had marriage given Matthew Levin, her very new husband, a confidence he had lost when he had dissolved his marriage to Jane and resumed his affair with DI Joanna Piercy?

‘OK, Matt,' she managed, in a friendly tone, unwilling for Miss Eloise to score any points at all, ‘I'll maybe see you later.'

Piss him
, she thought when the call was ended.
Piss him
. She needn't have headed home so fast. She could have stayed on at the station, caught up with the backlog that had accumulated during her honeymoon. Or she could have gone out for a drink with Korpanski like the good old days. Instead, like the good wife she was, she had hurried home, hoping to talk to Matthew about children's TV in the 1960s. She blew out a heavy sigh. She felt foolish.

Oh, well.

She poured herself a glass of chilled rosé wine and switched the computer on. This case was intriguing her, pulling her in. Behind the interest, she knew, was her degree in psychology. What makes people think and do the things they do? What influences behaviour and social attitudes? The why and wherefores. And the subject that interested her over all others and which she had done her thesis in: why is a particular era in history the one that produces the Beatles or Hitler, Elvis Presley, Martin Luther King, Tony Blair, Margaret Thatcher? These people all had one thing in common. They had come along at a time when a certain sector of people had needed them. So … could she apply this to a TV series? She believed so. She used this skill to look into children in the early sixties, found Butterfield Farm on the Internet, settled back and began to watch another episode.

This one was from 1965 and began with the strumming guitar music which was becoming familiar to her. It was the sort of rhythmic sound that she might have associated with an old Western. Relaxed. Easy. As she watched the credits rolled up. Timony Shore was the fourth name. And the action began.

It started in the kitchen, with Lily holding a tiny lamb and burying her face in it, weeping. She wrapped the lamb in a blanket and sat near the stove, cradling it, her hair falling over her face and the animal. Then she set it down and went to fetch a feeding bottle which presumably contained milk. It was boat shaped, with a teat on the end. The lamb simply moved its head away and flopped down. Even Joanna felt a bit cheated. Surely it was not going to die?

Then, as she watched, a young man swaggered in. One of the monkeys. Lily's brother, Sean. Joanna smiled. The one that Colclough's sister had labelled a ‘dish'. There was certainly a raw sexuality about him. He took the lamb from her and began to rub its fur vigorously. He was stocky, with thick, curling hair and powerful, hairy forearms, shirt sleeves rolled up to expose a tattoo. Joanna peered at it. A tattoo of a tractor? She put her hand over her mouth, giggling. As she watched, Sean stuck the teat into the lamb's mouth and, as he stroked its fur, the lamb began to suck greedily while Timony watched, eyes wide open. How old was she? Thirteen going on eight. The acting was ham. And Colclough and his sister had been right. It was sickly sweet. And yet, for all that, Joanna had to admit that it did tug at the heart strings. Even she was moved by the plight of the lamb and the little girl.

You cry, Piercy
, she warned herself,
and you'll have to stop watching
. And then she wondered. What was it about these corny stories that could have such an effect?

She watched the next scene, Sean Butterfield handing the lamb, milk bottle and teat very carefully across to his little sister. How old was Sean? she wondered. At a guess nineteen, twenty.

As the action moved outside Joanna was stunned to realize how closely Timony Weeks had recreated Butterfield Farm. This was no coincidence. She must have copied the place deliberately. Even down to the well at the front, complete with rack and bucket. Of course, everything else was different – old-fashioned lumpy tractors, some Shire horses clopping over cobbles, a Rayburn rather than an
Aga
in the kitchen. But it sent a shiver down Joanna's spine as she watched the action, which lasted an hour without any breaks.

She assumed that Butterfield had been recreated because it had been a period of happiness and success for Timony. It was an unusual but hardly unique scenario. But what the hell did all this have to do with recent events?

She switched the computer off and sat, staring into the darkness, wondering. When Timony Weeks had her holiday with Mrs Tong, would Butterfield Farm once again be a happy hunting ground? Was that what she wanted? No answers, no explanation? No more bother?

No
. Something wasn't right here. If she was honest with herself she did want to understand what and why all this had happened. It was preferable to silence and nothing. She wanted to know.

A
s Joanna drove to the station, she was anticipating another summons from Timony Weeks. She felt the apprehension crawl up the back of her neck the nearer she got to the town, which was even more congested than usual because protestors were trying to save a roundabout.

What next? she thought, as she fumed in the gridlock.

She was dreading the next call – partly because she didn't have a handle on the woman or the events, but partly because she had a feeling of impending doom. Things that had happened so long ago could surely have no bearing on recent events? But riding on the back of this was the unpleasant picture of the cat, Tuptim. So elegant and superior in life, with its twitching tail and arrogant posture, but so pathetic in death. Just a cat. A moggie. It was a bit like celebrity, she thought, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Alive they were sportsmen or millionaires, models and royalty. But dead they would all eventually be just corpses, their fame and fortune nothing but memories and photographs.

Joanna frowned. These thoughts were too morbid.

But if events were to escalate further what would or could happen next? At the back of her mind, irrational or not, was the image of a mad person stalking a celebrity, waiting for his opportunity, then fighting his way through bodyguards, trying to gouge Timony's eyes out with a pair of scissors. And judging by the proximity of the scar to Timony's eye, he had come bloody close. Half a centimetre to the right and he would have succeeded. What would have happened to her career then? She had been just a child – almost fourteen years old in years, about ten in appearance and possibly even younger in her mind.